


The Champion

by sophisticus



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-24 00:11:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6134793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophisticus/pseuds/sophisticus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody said it would be easy to flee the Blight, move to a foreign city that doesn't want you there, make a name for yourself while avoiding templar scrutiny, avoid getting involved in the beginning of a civil war, get involved in the civil war anyway, and then solve the foreign city's problems for it even though it didn't want you there. But for sure nobody ever said it would be this difficult.</p><p>Alternative title: Hawke has questionable taste in companions and life decisions, feat. poorly timed puns</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Champion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [benedictcumberlongpond](https://archiveofourown.org/users/benedictcumberlongpond/gifts).



> I really should wait until I finish "The Hero" before I do all this but fuck the rules i do what i want
> 
> and i still hate myself for setting myself this challenge

The evening was drawing to a close, the sky’s inky blue steadily deepening into the black of night. Already several stars winked down at the world, and in the distance a chantry bell tolled eight times. The streets were quiet apart from a stray cat slinking through an alleyway.

Three figures rounded a corner. As they passed a torch on a wall sconce, they were revealed to be two soldiers dragging a shorter man between them. The torchlight caught on the soldiers’ surcoats, where a single emblazoned eye stared forth. They approached a shadowed doorway and stepped inside, still dragging the man with them.

Two doorways and a short flight of stairs later, the soldiers dropped the man roughly in a chair. The dwarf lifted his head and scanned the dark room warily. His amber brown eyes skimmed over bookshelves, a small table, a wine rack, and the top of the stairway, at the top of which a tall woman clad in full armor had appeared. Her surcoat bore the same eye symbol as the soldiers, who now stepped past the woman and disappeared downstairs. She stepped forward, and the man noticed she held a thick book in her hands, which she opened and began leafing through almost leisurely.

“I’ve had gentler invitations,” the dwarf said bitingly. He brushed imaginary dust off his thick leather coat, as if the soldiers had gotten it dirty with their rough handling.

“I am Cassandra Pentaghast, Seeker of the Chantry,” the woman said as if he had not spoken. Far below them, the man heard the main door close, and he knew he was alone with this woman. Not an idea he relished, to be sure.

He chuckled nervously. “And just, uh, what are you seeking?”

“The Champion.”

He pretended to examine his nails, despite the fact that he was wearing gloves, and feigned disinterest. “Which one?”

The thick book that the Seeker had been holding slammed into his nose and fell into his lap. “You know exactly why I’m here!” she shouted. She had gotten very close, very quickly, and he found the cold edge of a dagger pressed against his throat, sharp enough to shave off his blonde stubble. His aching nose didn’t seem so bad in comparison. Her pewter gray eyes stared hard at him, glittering with intensity. “Time to start talking, dwarf. They tell me you’re good at it.” As if to punctuate her point, she withdrew the dagger, flipped it around, and stabbed it down. The dagger slid halfway through the book in the man’s lap, narrowly missing his leg. He lifted the book gingerly, examining the blade piercing through the binding, and sighed.

“What do you want to know?”

Cassandra turned back and looked at him intently. “Everything. Start at the beginning.”

 

* * *

 

The sun blazed sullenly down at the scorched and barren earth. The desolate landscape was pitted, and copses of burning trees and brush belched thick smoke up into the sky. The smoky atmosphere gave the sunlight a dirty orange-brown tint.

A group of a half dozen darkspawn roamed the empty plain, slaying any living creatures they came across. A snapping of a twig sounded behind them, and the darkspawn in the back whipped around to investigate. The creature’s black eyes widened and it screeched to alert its companions. A bolt of energy struck it and it fell to the ground, smoking. A woman stepped forward into the space the darkspawn had been occupying. She wore dark leather armor with a thick fur fastened around her neck, spiky armor all down her right arm, and had a long, pointy staff clenched in her left hand. Her right hand still crackled with energy from where she’d sent it flying at the beast. Her ice blue eyes flashed in the sunlight as she tossed a grin behind her at her companion, who now stepped forward.

The man whipped around a greatsword as if it weighed nothing, slicing through the darkspawn now charging them. Their thick black blood spattered on his blue and gray armor, which bore the insignia of a griffon – the symbol of the Gray Wardens.

Hawke spotted a Hurlock charging her and waited until it was just an arm’s reach away before reaching out and laying her hand almost gently on its chest. Electricity crackled down her arm and pumped into the beast, making its limbs go taut and spasm uncontrollably. It crumpled to the ground at her feet. Carver felled another four as she sent fireballs at the last of them.

Finally, all of them were dead except one last straggler. They could hear its rattling breath as it tried to reach its dropped sword; Hawke’s armored boot came down on the weapon. The beast looked up at her and screamed. Rancid breath washed over her and she wrinkled her nose as she incinerated it with a gesture and a flash of fire.

All of their enemies dead, Carver set his sword down and knelt beside the still-smoldering darkspawn. He made a face and pinched his nose closed. “Scouts,” he informed Hawke, slightly nasally. He picked his sword back up and stood. “We will have to fight them sooner or later.”

“Then we make our stand here,” Hawke replied evenly. “Prepare yourself.”

A second wave of darkspawn approached, and while the two defeated them quickly, they could already see more in the distance, screaming defiantly and waving their weapons erratically. The wind washed the smell of rotting and burned flesh towards them.

“We can’t keep this up forever!” Carver called to her.

Hawke allowed herself a smile. “Perhaps we’ll get lucky, and they’ll run out of darkspawn,” she mused aloud. Sparks danced between her fingertips and flames licked the blade at the end of her staff as she crouched, preparing herself.

“Here they come!” Carver shouted. “Shall I give them a taste of my blade?” As if to punctuate his point, he flipped the massive weapon around as if it were weightless. The sunlight flashed dully off the blood-crusted blade.

Hawke gestured with her gauntlet-ed hand. “All yours, brother.” Carver grinned and darted forward. His blade cut clean through one, two, three, four darkspawn, all falling with heads flying away or torsos sliced in half.

Five, ten, fifteen, twenty darkspawn later, it seemed like they’d made no dent. The beasts just kept coming. Just when the first treacherous thoughts of defeat began appearing in her mind, the ground under her feet began trembling. Even the darkspawn paused to turn and look at the monstrous beast thundering towards them.

The ogre appeared over the ridge, its squat legs carrying it as quickly as it could go, powerful arms dangling at its side. Spittle dripped from its mouth and flew everywhere as it roared at them and glared at them with its beady little eyes. Hawke and Carver’s eyes met, ice blue to honey brown, and they nodded in silent agreement. Carver stayed put, taking down the hurlocks and minor darkspawn systematically, while Hawke ran to the side to take on the ogre.

She learned quickly that immobilization spells did nothing against it, while electricity only seemed to anger it more.

Finally, a desperate ice spell slowed the beast down as it charged, allowing Hawke to dart to the side and avoid being crushed. She quickly fired off more ice magic, seeing ice crystals forming all over it. The giant darkspawn slowly lumbered to a crawl, bellowing in rage and pain as Carver finally joined her, the rest of the darkspawn killed off.  The siblings quickly defeated it, its rancid blood pooling thick on the ground.

Hawke stepped back, the blood pumping hot and quick in her veins. She turned; they wouldn’t even have time to take a breath and enjoy their victory. Already more darkspawn were coming, shrieking and leaping towards them.

“There’s no end to them!” Carver shouted, his back to hers. She didn’t have to see the desperation on his face, beneath the gore, sweat, and grime; she could hear it in his voice. She had to agree. There was no way they were getting out of this alive. The beasts quickly surrounded them, gnashing their rotted and pointy teeth at them and flailing their rusted weapons. Still, she lifted her staff and let lightning crackle down its length as ominously as she could manage. Behind her, she felt Carver lift his sword in preparation.

Above and behind them came a long, drawn out hiss. Hawke whipped around. From on top of a large rocky outcropping, massive scarlet wings unfurled. Between them rose a huge horned head of a high dragon. It stared down at them, fangs bared in a snarl, and let out a territorial screech. The beast stood, revealing its true size. Hawke felt her stomach drop and settle around the vicinity of her ankles.

It leapt off the rock and glided down towards them. The sunlight shone through the membranes of the wings, casting the beast’s dim red shadow. It opened its jaws and let out a gout of flame, the heat of which Hawke could feel even from fifty yards away.

The darkspawn shrieked as the dragon passed overhead-

 

* * *

 

 

“Bullshit!” Cassandra interrupted. She stared down at the dwarf, mouth pressed into a thin line. “That’s not what really happened.”

If he was bothered by the interruption, he didn’t show it. “Does that not match the story you’ve heard, Seeker?” The dwarf yawned.

“I’m not interested in stories.” The warrior paced back and forth. “I came to hear the truth.”

“And what makes you think I know the truth?”

Cassandra darted forward and slammed her hands down on the chair’s armrests, face inches from the dwarf’s. “Don’t lie to me!” she shouted. “You knew her, even before she became the Champion!”

The dwarf raised his hands defensively, trying to calm the woman. “Even if I did, I don’t know where she is now,” he said calmly. Cassandra bit back what she had been going to say next and stepped back, breathing heavily. She turned and walked away a couple paces, staring over the railing down into the main hall of the manor.

“Do you have any idea what is at stake here?” she asked eventually, her tone one of forced control.

“Let me guess: your precious Chantry’s fallen to pieces and put the entire world on the brink of war?” the dwarf guessed shrewdly. “And you need the one person who can help you put it back together.”

“The Champion was at the heart of it when it all began,” Cassandra sighed. “If you can’t point me to her, tell me everything you know.”

The dwarf sat forward, staring at her with a calculating expression on his face. “You aren’t worried I’ll just make it up as I go?”

The Seeker stared back, unfazed. “Not at all,” she said firmly.

The dwarf finally smiled, sitting back in the chair. He steepled his fingers and gazed at her thoughtfully, still smirking. “You’ll need to hear the _whole_ story.”

 

* * *

 

 

>  
> 
> The Blight had been unleashed on Ferelden. Darkspawn poured out of the Wilds, clashing with the army at the ruins of Ostagar. The battle was a disaster. King Cailan died on the field with his men, betrayed by his most trusted general. Unopposed, the horde marched on the village of Lothering. The village burned, and many innocents were slaughtered. The Champion’s family barely escaped in time…

The sun glared down on the rocky, burnt ground through the smoky air. Hawke’s feet pounded against the ground and her heart hammered in her chest. Her plain leather armor chafed at her joints, but she ignored the pain and kept going. Behind her, under her own raspy breath, she could hear the footfalls of her twin siblings and her mother. Behind them, she could hear the quickly approaching screeches of the pursuing darkspawn.

Her mother cried out and she heard a thud. Hawke whipped around to see her mother had fallen to the ground, exhaustion finally catching up to her. Having sensed their weakness, the darkspawn seemed to accelerate, a Hurlock bolting towards her mother.

Beside her, Hawke felt rather than saw her sister Bethany raise her hand with a cry. A wall of flame exploded between their small group and the beasts. The first two didn’t stop quickly enough and barreled through the flames, shrieking in pain and fury. Hawke impaled one on her staff’s blade, and Carver decapitated the other with a bellow. The siblings stared down the rest of them as they danced just outside the reach of the fire, screaming their frustration to the wind. Behind them, Bethany helped their mother rise to her feet. All four of them were dirty, hungry, and exhausted, carrying nothing but the clothes on their back and the meager food they could pack in their packs.

“I think that’s all of them,” Carver said. He wiped the black darkspawn blood off his blade on the leg of his pants, wrinkling his nose at the stench.

“For the moment,” Bethany replied.

Their mother, Leandra, shook her head, desperation etched in every line of her face. “Maker save us, we’ve lost it all,” she mourned. “Everything your father and I built…”

“At least we’re alive,” Hawke said lightly. “That’s no small feat.”

Leandra stared down at the ground. “Yes. You’re right.”

“We should have left sooner, why did we wait so long?” Bethany demanded, glancing over at her brother.

“Why’re you looking at me?” Carver demanded. “I’ve been running since Ostagar!”

“Not to interrupt, but the Blight’s not going to wait while we stand here pointing fingers,” Hawke said, looking pointedly at the darkspawn still lurking past the wall of flames.

“Please, listen to your sister,” Leandra begged. The twins nodded.

“Then let’s go,” Carver said. He nodded towards the path they’d been taking, which led vaguely northward. “Lead on.”

They continued on, fending off the occasional stray darkspawn that was in their way. At length, Bethany called up to Hawke for her to stop.

“Wait! Where are we going?” Bethany demanded. Carver let out a short laugh.

“Away from the darkspawn. Where else?” he shrugged.

“And then where?” Bethany asked. “We can’t just wander, aimlessly.”

“So long as we wander aimlessly _away_ from the horde, I’m happy,” Hawke interjected.

Leandra looked thoughtful. “We could go to Kirkwall,” she suggested.

Hawke’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Well that wouldn’t be my _first_ choice,” she said warily. Bethany seemed to agree.

“There’s a _lot_ of Templars in Kirkwall, Mother,” Bethany pointed out.

“I know that, but we still have family there, and an estate,” Leandra argued.

Bethany let out a sigh. “Then we need to get to Gwaren and take ship.”

“If we survive that long,” Carver said sourly. “I’ll be happy just to get out of here.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a throaty yell in the distance. Hawke’s head whipped around; that had been a distinctly human yell, not the chilling darkspawn shrieks they’d been forced to become accommodated with. She ignored her mother and siblings’ cries for her to wait, to see what it was before leaping in blindly. The sounds of a fight reached her ears, and she skidded around a corner in the path to find herself looking down at two figures fending off at least a dozen darkspawn. A man in full armor sliced at the creatures with his sword, and beside him a fiery-haired woman with a sword and shield bashed and hacked with impressive strength.

Hawke didn’t even pause to consider who they were or why they were out here. She leapt into the fray, bashing a head here, stabbing a gut there, and electrocuting any of the beasts that was unfortunate to get close enough. Behind her, she heard Bethany and Carver join her.

The fight seemed to be going well, all but a small handful of darkspawn felled, when one of them came up behind the armored man and sank its blade into his side, in a more weakly armored spot. A scream tore from the man’s lips, and he sank to his knees, sword clattering to the ground. The darkspawn advanced, victorious, sword raised to finish the warrior off.

A red blur seemed to come out of nowhere and tackle the darkspawn; the redheaded woman had thrown herself at the beast bare handed. It screamed at her and she punched it, repeatedly.

“You will NOT have him!” she shouted. Her hand grappled for her discarded sword as the beast writhed under her, and when she finally grasped the hilt she brought the blade down on the darkspawn’s throat. With a grunt, she pushed forward with all her strength and the blade sliced cleanly through the darkspawn’s neck. It shuddered once, then went still. The woman stood, covered in blood and breathing heavily. She darted over to where the armored man lay, panting weakly and white with agony. She scooped up the shield she’d dropped and helped him stand, his arm drawn around her shoulders. “They will not have you,” she said softly to him, and the barest flicker of a smile twitched the corners of his mouth. She turned and stared hard at the remaining darkspawn, shield raised defensively. “Not while I breathe.”

The blunt, heavy end of Hawke’s staff smashed into a darkspawn’s head with a wet crunch, and it dropped to her feet. “Come on!” she shouted. Carver rushed past her and cut down another two, and off to the side Bethany rained huge ice shards down on the rest of them. Another minute, and the last of the beasts were defeated. At least, for now.

Hawke wiped a sticky smear of blood off her cheek and turned to the man and woman. The armored man had sat back against a rock, breath hissing through gritted teeth. The redhead knelt in front of him, lifting his hands away to examine his wound.

“Stop squirming, Wesley. You’ll make it worse,” she murmured as Hawke and her family approached. The man’s eyes fell upon Bethany, and he staggered to his feet.

“Apostate!” he spat. “Keep your distance!” Hawke’s eyes fell upon the insignia upon his chest, almost hidden underneath the blood and gore; the flaming sword of the Templar Order. She swore silently; of all the things for them to run into, they had to come across a fucking _templar_.

Hawke jerked her staff back and the blade slid out of the last darkspawn she’d killed with a squelch. “Two apostates, templar.” Wesley’s eyes jerked to hers, and he regarded her with a look she couldn’t quite pinpoint; not exactly as if she were some disgusting creature he’d found underneath a rock, but rather as if she were something dangerous, like a poisonous snake.

“Well the Maker has a sense of humor,” Bethany scoffed. “First darkspawn, and now a Templar? I thought they all abandoned Lothering.”

“The ‘spawn are clear in their intent, but a mage is always unknown,” the templar ground out. He sucked in a breath, steeling himself against his agony. “The Order dictates…”

“Wesley,” the redheaded woman said softly.

“These women are apostates,” he snapped. He stepped forward, approaching Bethany menacingly, if not steadily. “The Order dictates-”

Hawke stepped in front of Bethany, right up into the templar’s face. He was a good half a foot taller than she was, and even though he was severely wounded, he still was the embodiment of everything she had been taught to fear about templars. Despite this, she stared at him unflinchingly, hoping that every fiber of her being was transmitting the idea of ‘don’t fuck with me’.

For once, being covered in blood was probably working in her favor.

“Dear, they saved us,” the redhead said gently. She laid her hand on his shoulder. “The Maker understands.”

Wesley stared hard at Hawke for a moment, then slid his gaze back to Bethany, who stood silently behind Hawke. After a long second, his hard expression softened, and he dropped his gaze. “Of course,” he said softly. He stepped back, returning to the redhead’s side.

“I’m Aveline Vallen,” she introduced herself. “This is my husband, Ser Wesley. We can hate each other when we’re safe from the horde.”

Behind her, Hawke’s siblings and mother introduced themselves. “The wrath of the templars is terrible indeed,” Hawke mused. The templar grimaced.

“More so their wives,” he replied.

“Ser Wesley, I noticed you got injured,” Bethany said hesitantly. “If I may, I can try and at least stop the bleeding. I’m no healer, but I can try.”

The templar bristled. “If you think I will entrust myself to an unknown apostate-”

“Wesley,” Aveline said again, but this time it was less to soothe the man and more to warn him. He grimaced, and gave a tight nod, indicating he would allow Bethany closer. She knelt, hands raised carefully so as to not provoke the man, and allowed the gentle green-blue of healing magic to pour forth. Her sister’s head was bent to examine the wound, so Bethany missed the rapid-fire expressions that crossed the templar’s face; wariness, terror, surprise, and finally relief, all in a span of seconds.

“This is a strange time to be hunting apostates,” Hawke pointed out as Bethany continued. “Your fellows left with the chantry priests.”

“I was traveling to Denerim on business for the Order, but I had to turn south when I heard of Ostagar,” Wesley explained. His voice had taken on a slightly dreamy tone, probably a reaction to the sudden drop-off of pain from his wound.

Aveline gave a soft smile. “Bad luck – and bad judgement – brought us together here before the attack." Hawke sensed there was a story behind that, but decided not to press her luck.

“As long as there is a greater danger, you and I have an accord,” Wesley said, looking straight at Hawke. She let out a scoff.

“You’re not exactly in any condition to go back on your ‘accord’, there,” she said scathingly.

“Sister, the nice templar has been convinced to postpone his hunt for illegal mages,” Bethany piped up from where she still knelt by Wesley. The blue-green glow faded away and she pulled back to reveal the smooth, unbroken skin of his side showing through the tear in his armor. “So let’s not dwell upon it, shall we?” She shot Hawke a pointed look.

“Wise girl,” said Aveline. Hawke could see the unspoken ‘wiser than her sister’ on the redhead’s face, and she decided a change of topic was probably best.

“For a while it looked like we were the only ones to escape the darkspawn,” she said, glancing at her family.

“We aren’t free of them yet,” Carver interjected. “You didn’t see Ostagar. This is just the start.”

“You were there?” Aveline said, surprised. She looked Carver over, and recognition dawned on her freckled face. “Yes, I see it now. Third company, under Captain Varel.”

Carver nodded. “Then you saw how the whole of the army was defeated.”

Aveline shook her head. “We fell to betrayal, not the darkspawn. This arm of the horde will not have the same advantage.” Her gaze turned back to Hawke. “But we’ve stayed here too long. For now, we move with you. The north is cut off, we barely escaped the main body of the horde.”

Leandra let out a distressed cry and buried her face in her hands. Bethany looked as if she was going to be sick, but Carver just looked very angry, if pale. “Then we’re trapped!” he said loudly. His hand slashed through the air as if to punctuate his point. “The Wilds are to the south, that’s no way out!”

“If the options are south or die, I’ll take my chances with the south,” Hawke interrupted, hoping to calm everyone down.

The group began making their way slowly southward. Hawke and Bethany picked off any darkspawn that appeared around the path corners or over ridges, and Carver and Aveline defended against those that made it past the mages’ ranged attacks. A brief discussion later, and the group rearranged itself in a single file line; Hawke leading the front, with Aveline behind her. Ser Wesley and Leandra stayed in the middle, as it was the most protected. And in the back, Carver followed with Bethany at the end, to keep an eye out for any straggler darkspawn who might seek to come up from behind them.

This arrangement worked well until they got up to a wide clearing and an unusually large swarm of darkspawn caused them to break formation. Everybody stuck close, keeping Leandra and Wesley in the middle, as safe as they could possibly be under these circumstances.

One darkspawn leapt close and Hawke caught it under the chin with the blade of her staff, its own momentum spearing it on the end. It gurgled at her and she released a current of electricity into it; the beast fell twitching at her feet. To the left, Carver sliced another clean in half; to the right, Bethany caused spears of ice to erupt from the ground, impaling several darkspawn in their place. For the moment, it appeared that they were winning.

A quick-approaching thunderous booming snatched Hawke’s attention, and she jerked around to stare in the direction the sound was coming from. The ogre rose over the ridge, its legs propelling it forward as fast as they could. The monster roared; Hawke leapt to the side to avoid being crushed.

The beast tore through the middle of their group, splitting them in two: Leandra, Bethany, and Wesley on one side; Hawke, Carver, and Aveline on the other. The ogre turned its giant horned head, examining them all with hateful, beady little eyes. It bellowed, spittle flying everywhere, and stomped towards Bethany and her mother.

Bethany glanced at Leandra, and her expression of terror was quickly subdued by determination. Hawke couldn’t hear her, but she saw her sister’s lips move. “Maker give me strength,” Bethany said, and attacked the ogre with all her strength. The beast brushed aside the ice shards and bursts of flame as if they were nothing; Bethany’s staff cracked against its head and Hawke saw the staff break and splinter.

The beast wrapped its giant hand around Bethany, roaring in pain and fury, and slung her down against the ground with a sick, wet, _crunch_. She went limp in its grip; once, twice, three times the giant darkspawn bashed Hawke’s sister, her little sister, against the unyielding ground, and then it tossed her aside as if she were a broken toy. Bethany rolled to a stop thirty yards away, and lay still.

Screaming filled Hawke’s ears, a high pitched, horrible scream. Dimly, she realized it was her own voice, scratched and cracking under the weight of an unbearable agony that threatened to destroy her from the inside out.

Lightning and fire filled her field of vision, blacking out all other sensation until all she felt was the supercharged current arcing off her fists and the flames burning against her face. And still the screaming continued, on and on until finally the fire had died away and the electricity had faltered and the screams had finally quieted down to low, broken sobs. The only other thing she was aware of was strong arms holding her close and Aveline’s soft voice trying to comfort her, all below the high, keening wail of her mother’s grief.

\------

There wasn’t time for a proper funeral, though Hawke’s outburst had bought them some time.  The darkspawn had fled, seeing her take down the ogre without even her staff, just her own wild and uncontrolled magic. Carver and Aveline found a relatively flat stretch of rock and cleaned it off as best as they could, while Hawke finally approached the broken thing that had been her sister.

She fell to her knees, and wiped a smear of blood from Bethany’s cheek with a shaking hand. Leandra still knelt on the other side, her wails of grief now reduced to soft sobs. Dimly, Hawke knew that she should comfort her mother, but the words stuck in her throat.

“Bethany gave her life to save us,” Hawke said at length, her voice low and scratchy, as if from disuse. Leandra didn’t even look at her.

“I don’t want a hero, I want my daughter!” she ground out. “How could you let her charge off like that!? Oh, my poor little girl. My sweetheart…”

Hawke knew logically that her mother was likely only lashing out from grief, but the words still felt like a slap to the face.

“It’s time,” came Aveline’s voice from behind her. Hawke reached out to lift Bethany from the ground. She pulled her sister’s broken, still warm body close and felt her blood leak into her clothes and stain her hands. _How appropriate,_ she thought to herself. _I have her blood on my hands, figuratively_ and _literally_.

Hawke stood, and at this point Bethany’s head lolled back limply to reveal the caved-in side of her head. Dirt and ash clung to the gory mess that had been her sister’s cranium, and Hawke’s stomach rolled. Her knees must have buckled too because at that point Carver appeared in her field of vision, steadying her with his big hands. She looked up at his face, noting the half-healed scrapes and cuts, all under a film of blood and ash and sweat. But that was nothing compared to the desolate, lost look in his eyes.

“Take it easy,” he said, and Hawke couldn’t remember the last time his voice had been so gentle when he spoke to her. He scooped Bethany out of Hawke’s arms and cradled his twin close, then walked over to the cleared area and laid her down carefully. From this angle, if it weren’t for the blood, Bethany almost looked like she could be sleeping.

Aveline helped Hawke gather the shattered splinters of Bethany’s staff, which they scattered around her body along with some meager brush and scrub that they could find. Hawke glanced at Carver and Leandra; her brother nodded at her numbly, but her mother just stared ahead. Her eyes were glazed and red-rimmed from crying; and her graying hair was escaping her ponytail everywhere.

She turned back to Bethany’s body, raised her trembling hands, and with a flick of her fingers set her sister’s body and the brush aflame. Leandra’s soft sniffles once again rose into full, body-shaking sobs, but Wesley knelt at the head of the pyre and began to sing softly. “O Maker, hear our cry. Guide us through the blackest nights, steel our heart against the temptations of the wicked, make us to rest in the warmest places. Although Hawke had never been a devout Andrastian, she still recognized the Chant of Transfigurations. Bethany’s favorite chant.

“O Creator, see us kneel: for we walk only where you would bid us, stand only in places you have blessed, sing only the words you place in our throats. Our Maker, know our hearts. Take her from a life of sorrow, lift her from a world of pain, judge her worthy of your endless pride.”

Hawke stared down at her hands as the fire crackled, raising higher into the slowly darkening sky. Bethany’s blood had gotten in the creases of her knuckles and under her fingernails. She tried wiping it off on her pants, but it just smeared everywhere.

“Our Creator, judge her whole: find her well within Your grace, touch her with fire that she may be cleansed, tell her she has sung to Your approval. O Maker, hear our cry: seat her by Your side in death. Make her one within Your glory and let the world once more see Your favor.”

Hawke’s vision fractured and blurred, and she raised her hand to her face to find her cheek was wet. Off to her side, she heard Carver give a sniffle. She laid a hand on his shoulder, and when he shrugged it off it was only halfhearted.

“For you are the fire and the heart of the world,

And comfort is only Yours to give.”


End file.
